


The Anti-Antichrist

by ElaraSterling



Category: Living Dead Dolls
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2019-11-17 21:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18107144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElaraSterling/pseuds/ElaraSterling
Summary: The Academy of Apocalyptic Arts is the finest school for aspiring antichrists. Damien has always failed to overshadow his successful twin brother, but he won’t this time when he initiates the greatest apocalypse in history.





	1. Chapter 1

Damien was copying down all the diabolical notes on the chalkboard, including the drawings of the Four Horsemen, making the best of his glaring lack of artistic talent. He was a serious student of the Academy of Apocalyptic Arts. No, _the_ most serious student, and he would finally prove it by the end of graduation this year. Somehow.

He glared at his oblivious twin brother across the room. That nauseating English curse who flaunted himself and his Beastly mark, as if it was a fashion statement. He didn’t take the work nearly as seriously, yet there he was, adored by peers and professors alike. It was bad enough that they had to share a home, but a name? Why in all Nine Circles of Hell did their parents have to like “Damien” so much?

It wasn’t as if anyone mistook Damien for his detestable twin. They rarely noticed him. But soon they would regard him, and with respect. They wouldn’t laugh anymore after witnessing the most horrific apocalypse to ever doom creation, initiated by the _real_ Damien, not his copy.

Somehow.

Professor Blackburn—who, like the other teachers, had an infuriating habit of calling Damien anything but—rose from his seat with a pointing stick.

“I presume you are all finished taking notes,” he said, and tapped the stick at the Four Horsemen on the board. “In which case: Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death. Can anyone name the greatest disasters in history that represent each of these evils?”

Damien raised his hand and so did his brother, who threw him an infamously enraging, complacent glance.

Professor Blackburn, unsurprisingly, pointed to the smug rat. “Damien?”

“The Black Plague, the Great War, Holodomor, and Jonestown,” his brother answered, and the class applauded.

“Excellent,” Professor Blackburn said. “And we all know that your father was the bringer of the Black Death. What is the approximate number of lives lost?”

“Over seventy-five million, sir.”

Applause ensued.

“Inspiring,” Professor Blackburn said. “An example we should all be striving to set as antichrists. Not that I have any doubts about you, Damien. You are very much the image of your father.”

Damien’s twin gave the coyest smile that made him want to rip it off in front of everyone.

“Thank you, sir,” the imposter said.

“Now,” Professor Blackburn continued, “can anyone tell me what the four aforementioned events took to be initiated with success?”

Damien raised his hand to no avail—again, his brother was picked.

“Vision, charisma, and resourcefulness,” he said. “A true antichrist knows how to reach many souls in favor of their plan, which is nothing short of thorough. The more numbers, the stronger the impact, but the more clever minds, the better the initiation is secured down to the tiniest loophole. A real apocalypse sends a permeating sense of hopelessness that no amount of faith, angels, or God can touch.”

The classroom thundered with applause.

“Oh, Damien,” Professor Blackburn said, hand on his chest. “You are on the path to _unspeakable_ things.”

The undeserving twin responded with nothing more than another punchable smile, and he dared to look at Damien, who would’ve confronted him had they been alone. But not in the academy. Not at home. Not in Hell.

Damn it all!

If he couldn’t confront his brother without being laughed out of the fiery depths, he would confront the professor.

Damien waited for all the students to pour out of the room when class ended. Then he rose from his seat, took a deep breath, and approached the busy professor in strides, chin up and not breaking eye contact, even though the professor wasn’t looking at him.

He stopped before the desk and cleared his throat. The professor looked up from his papers and scrutinized the antichrist.

“Professor Blackburn,” Damien said.

“Who are you?” the professor asked.

“I’m Damien.”

The professor glanced at the doorway. “But Damien—oh, that’s right. You’re twins. Are you the younger one, by any chance?”

“I’m six minutes older than him.”

Professor Blackburn blinked. “Oh. Well, what do you want?”

_I’ll have you know that I am also the Devil’s son,_ Damien thought, _and I deserve the opportunity to prove myself AND get picked to answer questions. I demand you treat me like an equal to my brother, or I will show you exactly how much of an antichrist I can be!_

“Nothing.”

Professor Blackburn did not look amused. “Run along, then. I do not appreciate my time being wasted, Daniel.”

“It’s Damien.”

“Sure.”

Steam practically left Damien’s ears as he stormed out of the room. When would he be given a chance? Just one chance, that was all he needed. Why didn’t anyone ever take him seriously? He was not just an antichrist like the others, but the son of the man who had initiated the greatest apocalypse to date! Damien swore that everyone liked his brother for nothing more than his looks, notably his birthmark. They wanted a “real” antichrist who bore the mark. It was all about appearance! Everyone in this academy was so shallow, so unworthy, so—

“Hello, brother!” his twin called, freezing Damien in place. “Did you like my answers?”

The students laughed.

“I liked yours too,” he continued, the British disregard of the letter “R” especially boiling Damien’s blood. “Oh, wait. That was me!”

The students laughed harder.

_Keep going,_ Damien thought to himself. _Don’t give him the attention. Leave. LEAVE!_

He turned around.

“Don’t you have a birthmark to be admiring?” he shot back.

“Don’t you as well?” the twin replied. “Say, where are _your_ sixes?”

The halls filled with “oohs.”

Damien half-laughed. “I don’t need one to flaunt like some people.”

“Is that a hint of meekness I sense? Tsk-tsk, brother. You call yourself an antichrist when you don’t even know the deadliest virtue of all.”

“I am _not_ meek!” Damien snapped, taking a step forward. “By the end of graduation, I’m going to wipe you all out with the greatest apocalypse ever!”

Everyone gasped. Damien’s twin was wide-eyed, but then the corner of his lip twitched. He burst out laughing, and the other students joined him.

“Brother, please!” he said, holding his stomach. “This is too much!”

Once again, Damien was laughed out of the academy.

And, this time, he probably deserved it.

The greatest apocalypse in history? He didn’t have anything remotely close to a plan. He had no idea where to start. He had no one, except for a couple friends he’d be meeting at Skullbucks for coffee.

Great.

Damien stopped at Malmart and purchased a black hoodie. He still prayed to his father, hoping no one would recognize him in the coffee shop. Of course, neither Sadie nor Wolfgang were ever perfectly on time like him, so Damien waited a few anxiety-ridden minutes outside. Finally, a classic hearse pulled up, and the two friends exited.

Sadie, clutching her coffin purse, gave him the weirdest of looks. “Damien?”

“Hi.”

“Why are you wearing that?” she asked. “You look like Isaiah.”

“What?” Damien said. “Ew, thanks.”

“Sorry?”

Damien sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you inside.”

After ordering their drinks and finding a table as far from earshot as possible, Damien admitted to his biggest mistake yet, head down in nothing but shame. Neither friend knew what to say, but Wolfgang rubbed his back.

Damien’s head sank into his hands. “What am I going to do now?”

“Look on the dark side, dude,” Wolfgang said. “You’ll always be cool to us.”

Damien groaned, pulling his hood down.

“I wish I could murder that worthless brother of mine and get away with it!” he said. “He thinks he’s _the_ antichrist just because he has a birthmark and a British accent.”

Sadie sighed, chin in her hands.

“And a nice coat,” she added, and perked up as Damien glared at her. “Sorry, I mean—hey, wait a second.” Her black lips curled into a sinister smile. “Maybe you could.”

“What?”

Sadie beckoned the boys to lean in, and Wolfgang scooted closer to Damien as they did. She whipped out the sleekest, sharpest, and shiniest knife with the symbol of an apple engraved on its handle. The boys gaped.

“Is that the iKnife X?” Damien asked, trying to keep his voice low, and Sadie nodded, humming in approval. “That costs more than every soul in town altogether! How in all that is unholy did you get it?”

“I was one of the Lucky Thirteen reviewers to get one for free,” Sadie said. “I’m still in the process of making the video. Anyway, as you both must know, it can slice through _anything_.”

Sadie pulled an iCell 666 out of her coffin purse and set it on the table. She demonstrated the sharpness of the iKnife X, slicing clean through the phone, as if it was made of butter. The boys were speechless.

“It has ten different blades, including multiples that spin simultaneously for a messier kill,” Sadie continued, and the iKnife X whirred in a deadly blur of knives for a second. “That’s not all, though. It has Eve.” She held the handle to her mouth. “Eve, who would be the easiest kill here?”

“Scanning area,” a monotonous woman’s voice spoke through the iKnife X. “Scan complete. Your easiest kill is within ten feet. Target is wearing a red and black surplice.”

Damien looked over at Judas, who was holding his inverted cross necklace, saying a demonic prayer to his bubbling, soul-black latte. _Wow. Judas is easier to kill than Wolfgang._

His attention returned to Sadie. “Okay, so I could very easily murder my brother and set his body on hellfire and dispose of the ashes. This is perfect!”

Sadie grinned. She tapped the base of the handle and the blade retracted, and she slid it across the table to Damien and he caught it.

“Don’t lose it,” she said, “or I’ll have to kill you. Slowly.”

Damien pocketed the iKnife X, smirking to himself. “Won’t happen.”

On his way home, Damien ignored Wolfgang’s endless pleas to see and touch the iKnife X. He could never trust his careless roommate to not lose, misplace, or break things, most of which had been replaced at Damien’s expense. The unruly-haired boy in the passenger seat always made promises, but they were as empty as his frequently stoned mind. Why had Damien chosen to spare him from eternal suffering, again?

Oh, yeah. The sweater. The vintage treasure that had, in the middle of demonic playtime, started an awkward conversation between them about alternative fashion and music. He’d practically begged his father to release the boy who’d signed his name in blood. Never had anyone been freed from eternal damnation, but Damien had managed to convince Lou Sapphire, the Ruler of Hell, that Wolfgang was ally potential. Truthfully, there was better, but he didn’t mock or ignore the antichrist. Not once. Despite his exasperating shortcomings, Wolfgang was a decent friend. He may not have been totally ideal, but—

“Damien, look out!”

Damien didn’t think before slamming on the brakes. In the middle of the road was a fiendish squirrel, and it parted its jaws in a smile with too many dripping fangs. It darted toward the hearse at a speed that Damien couldn’t beat: the vermin ripped off a chunk of tire and ran away with it before the gas pedal could be slammed.

For a minute, Damien simmered in silence, trying to resist the temptation of strangling the perfect idiot next to him.

“Why?” Damien asked. “Why did you tell me to look out? You _know_ we’re supposed to hit them, and now I have to call for repair! What do you expect me to tell them, huh?”

“I’m sorry,” Wolfgang said. “I thought it was just a regular squirrel.”

“Wolfgang,” Damien deadpanned. “We’re in Hell.”

Sometimes Damien believed his sorry excuse for a friend, let alone an ally, was no different from the others and simply liked to toy with him. Nobody could be this stupid.

Then again…

Dinner that night, as usual, consisted of the undeserving twin’s favorite meals rather than Damien’s—roast lamb, gravy-covered vegetables, and Yorkshire pudding. Bland, soulless, English garbage that couldn’t hold a Black Flame Candle to Italian cuisine. Everyone would agree, whether or not they wanted to admit it. His brother was too smug and his father was merely pandering. Wolfgang devoured the food and never complained, but only because he could eat anything. Give him the choice of pizza or fish and chips and the former would be almost inhaled first.

The twin dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and he looked at Damien with that contemptible gleam in his red eyes. “What’s wrong, brother? You’ve hardly eaten.”

Damien held his brother’s condescending gaze. “I’m in the mood for a little more variety.”

Lou and Wolfgang stopped eating.

“Is that so?” his twin said. “Well, perhaps you could share a new recipe or two, just as you shared your plans with the academy.”

“Plans?” Lou said, glancing between the twins.

No fire burned hotter than the shame that was consuming Damien.

His devilforsaken brother raised his glass of gin. “Cheers to the upcoming greatest apocalypse in history!”

Lou’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Oh yes, father,” the twin said. “Your other spawn is going to surprise us all.”

He drank while Damien, face probably as red as a tomato, barely contained the urge to take this opportunity to throw his plate across the table.

“Yeah,” he declared, forcing his chair back with a screech as he rose, “I _am_ going to surprise you all, and you _will_ bow before me when I am crowned King of Earth!”

Everyone stared in disbelief. The look on his obnoxious twin’s face gave the antichrist a rare sense of power, but it was ripped from him as lips twitched, attempting to restrain laughter. Damien couldn’t tolerate any more of this without leaping at his brother, so he turned around and stormed off to his bedroom as the jackass laughed and laughed. Once inside, he slammed the door and collapsed onto the bed, burying his face in his pillow. Not even a minute later, a few knocks came.

“Damien?” Wolfgang said. “Are you okay?”

Damien didn’t lift his head. “No.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure.”

The door creaked open and then closed. Footsteps made their way to the bed and the end of it sank with Wolfgang’s presence.

“I believe in you,” he said.

Damien turned over. “Really?”

Wolfgang nodded. “Really. But especially after you kill your brother.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Damien replied, resting his head on the pillow again.

“You can do it!” Wolfgang said. “Are you really willing to let him win, to let British rule over Italian?”

A righteous anger surged through Damien, making him push himself up and ball his hand into a fist. “You’re right. I can’t let a world of tasteless and idiotically named food like bangers and mash, bubble and squeak, and spotted dick happen. I’m doing this. The reign of the false antichrist ends tonight!”

Sneaking into his brother’s room was far more difficult than it should’ve been. Not because it was too dark, for candles were always burning, giving off enough light. Not because the twin was a light sleeper. Not because there were any traps in place like in Damien’s room. The door wasn’t even locked. In fact, it had always been left open, as if the insufferable clown sphincter that was fast asleep in his bed, completely unaware and vulnerable, wanted Damien to enter. To gaze upon all his achievements, to envy everything he had _supposedly_ earned. Awards, trophies, certificates, scholarships. Even letters of adoration from Hitler and Stalin, both of whom had managed to write them despite burning the hottest.

Damien, on the other hand, had nothing to showcase.

But he would oh-so-very soon. No longer would he be overshadowed.

Removing the iKnife X from his pocket, Damien tiptoed toward his sleeping brother.

_Just one slit across the neck,_ he thought. _Then, a quick hellfire invocation, and he’s gone. Finally gone. You can do this, Damien._

The twin shifted and Damien stopped, hiding the iKnife behind his back, praying to every eldritch abomination.

He was still asleep. Good.

“ _Damien_ ,” a boy whispered.

Damien spun around to see Wolfgang, throwing a hand over his mouth to muffle a yelp. His idiot of a friend was standing in the doorway, grinning and waving a giant foam hand. He glanced at his brother who was, thankfully, undisturbed.

“ _What_ are you doing here?” Damien asked, trying to keep his voice low.

Wolfgang shrugged. “I just thought you could use the support.”

“No, I’m fine. Shoo!”

“Okay, okay. Jeez.”

Wolfgang left and Damien sighed, turning to face his brother. Now was his chance. Carefully, he pulled the covers down to expose the neck and raised the iKnife X.

_One quick slit,_ he thought. _Just one quick slit. Come on, Damien._

The twin shifted again, practically instilling the fear of God into the antichrist. He didn’t move.

Alas, the fool was still snoozing away, but he’d turned on his side. Damien cursed under his breath. He would’ve been done by now if he hadn’t hesitated.

Why was he hesitating?

_I could just stab him in the head,_ Damien thought. _There’s nothing too solid for the iKnife X._

But he didn’t. He just stood there, holding the blade like a buffoon.

He looked at his brother’s accomplishments that sat on shelves and hung on walls. With the candle-cast shadows that danced across them, it looked as if they were staring back at him, watching, mocking. Just like his twin would.

Damien’s grip tightened on the knife, but he couldn’t bring it down.

The jeers rang louder in his mind and he gritted his teeth. _Why_ couldn’t he do this? His twin was completely unguarded, helpless. Killing him couldn’t have been easier. Most of Damien’s problems would vanish, people would notice _and_ come to respect him, and the apocalyptic throne would belong to no other. And it was then when he realized.

_It was too easy._ Nothing truly worth accomplishing was easy, and much less so for an antichrist.

People wouldn’t really admire him. They’d miss his brother. They’d believe his achievements were simply the result of his missing twin, missing competition.

No matter what it took, Damien would prove them wrong as well as his contemptible double. Why would he choose to do away with him over seeing the dumbfounded look on his face? Why miss the day when the one who bore the Mark realized he was undeserving?

Damien slipped the iKnife X back into his pocket and left.

When he opened the door to his room and switched on the light, Wolfgang was awake in bed, and he perked up like a happy dog upon seeing its owner.

“Did you do it?” he asked.

“No,” Damien said, closing the door behind him.

“What?”

“I thought about it,” Damien said, pulling his sweater vest over his head, “and I realized how unfulfilling it would be to not have my brother around to envy my apocalypse.”

Wolfgang shook his head. “I knew you needed my support.”

Damien threw the vest at him and Wolfgang shielded himself from the flying article of clothing.

“Hey!” he cried.

“That’s not the case!” Damien snapped. “Do you honestly think anyone would attribute my efforts to me and not my dead brother? No, they wouldn’t. How could they believe I actually surpassed him if he isn’t here? It’s not an excuse, it’s solid fucking logic!”

“Okay, I get it!” Wolfgang assured, making a “calm down” gesture with his hands. “Chill, bro.”

Damien glared at him before turning away to unbutton his shirt.

“So,” Wolfgang said, and paused, evidently considering his words, “any ideas for your apocalypse?”

“It’s been a day, Wolfgang.”

“Right, but you only have a few months and—”

“I know!” Damien near-shouted. “You’re not helping!”

Damien shouldn’t have turned around because now Wolfgang looked as if he’d been kicked, his puppy-dog eyes drawing a shunned emotion from the antichrist—guilt.

“I’m sorry,” Wolfgang said. “I really want to help you.”

Damien ran a hand through his hair and sighed, cursing to himself.

“I know,” he said. “It’s just… I don’t even know where to begin. Nobody will give me a chance.”

Wolfgang paused in thought, and he flashed a wicked smile. “We’ll make them, or else.”

“Or else what?”

“They won’t have a choice if they’re also victims.”

Damien stared at him. “How would they become victims?”

“The Great Old Ones would know.”

Damien’s jaw dropped.

“Wolfgang,” he said. “That’s brilliant!”

Wolfgang giggled.

Damien paced, scratching his chin. “Yes. An apocalypse that brings not only Earth and Heaven down to their knees, but also Hell, it’s perfect!” He stopped. “But it’s… highly improbable.”

“But not impossible,” Wolfgang added.

“Perhaps,” Damien said, “but within a few months? This requires far more planning and dedication than any other apocalyptic design there ever was and will be.”

“However long it takes, right?”

Damien rubbed his hands together. “Yes. However long it takes.”


	2. Chapter 2

Breakfast was no better than dinner. In fact, it was probably worse: boring bacon and toast, disgusting poached eggs, unsavory fried tomatoes and mushrooms, and the absolutely repulsive black pudding. Oh, and sausage, as if the wretched blood variety wasn’t enough. How the damn Brits loved their sausage. It all made Damien want to vomit.

Unsurprisingly, Wolfgang was stuffing his face. Damien nibbled his slice of buttered toast, trying to look as if he wasn’t bothered so that his insufferable twin would shut up and leave him alone. Not that he ever did, or would. One glance in his direction and he sneered at the antichrist, who looked away, but the enemy’s gaze was burning.

Damien slammed his fist on the table, startling his coffee-sipping father and munching friend.

“What!” he said, not breaking eye contact with his abysmal twin. “What do you want?”

“Oh,” the brother said, as if he was nothing but innocent, “I was just wondering something.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Did you sleep well last night?”

Damien hesitated. “Yes. Did you?”

“I had the most interesting dream. You were in it.”

Sweat was already forming on Damien’s temples.

“Yes,” the twin continued, nodding in thought. “You were in it, and you were holding something as I was curled up in my bed, paying no mind to your presence. Whatever was in your possession, it looked ever so shiny and sharp. I wonder what it could mean?”

“How would I know?” Damien said, hoping he wasn’t too red. “Sounds like a stupid dream to me. Why would I even be in your room?”

“Indeed, _why_ would you be in my room?”

“Boys,” Lou snapped, and set his mug down. “That’s enough. You are both graduating and should be focusing on your plans for the apocalypse instead of needless drama. You’re antichrists, the sons of the Devil himself, not some foolish characters in a young adult novel. Take your Devil-given purpose seriously, or I will have a special place for each of you in Hell.”

“Sorry, Father,” the twins said in unison, and they glared at each other.

If the antichrist was completely honest, he feared one thing: disappointing the Devil. It was bad enough that the Ruler of Hell favored the imposter, but he never totally dismissed Damien and it certainly wasn’t out of pity. His father knew there was potential and that was why giving up would never happen—besides the threat of a fiery wrath like no other.

But Lou didn’t have to worry. Damien would not disappoint him. Not with the plan he had in mind.

At the end of yet another inglorious day, Damien visited the local library. Nobody in the academy had forgotten about his impulsive claim to bring the greatest apocalypse ever. They’d talked and laughed behind his back, along with his blasted brother, but the antichrist reminded himself that they’d all be eating their words with a rusty pitchfork someday. They had not the slightest idea as to what in the underworld he could possibly be planning, and Damien vowed to keep it that way.

The library was full of books about everything diabolical, ranging from _Insults for Dummies_ to _The Gentleman’s Guide to World Domination_. The Necronomicon didn’t seem to be among them, not even in the fiction section that held every kind of horror, including tentacle rape with real, surprise tentacles. Damien knew it had to be here despite the “Not Found” on the computer screen. He glanced at the woman with black horns and a mane of white hair behind the front desk, reading _The Book of Lies_. Xezbeth, the Liar. He hated the idea of asking her for help because she only spoke in obnoxious riddles. What other choice did he have, though?

Damien left his swerving chair and approached the demon.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m looking for a certain book.”

Xezbeth didn’t acknowledge him.

“It’s… Lovecraftian. But not fiction. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” Xezbeth said, without looking up from her book.

An awkward silence hung between them.

“Okay, so… could you tell me where it is?”

“Restricted section.”

“Where is the restricted section, exactly?”

“Only those who prove themselves worthy may be granted access.”

Damien rolled his eyes. “Fair enough, I suppose. How do I go about ‘proving’ myself ‘worthy?’”

“If you have to ask, you’ll never know.”

Damien stared.

“Uh, if I don’t ask, how will I ever know?” he said. “That’s usually how this works.”

Xezbeth ignored him.

Damien huffed. “Could you at least spare me a hint, or something?”

Xezbeth’s eyes met Damien’s as a small, but wicked smile came over her face.

“A hint I can spare,” she said, and cleared her throat. “I am a place where people are _dying_ to get in, but when they do, they no longer speak. What am I?”

Damien pondered the riddle. “A graveyard?”

Xezbeth giggled, returning to her book.

“Well?” Damien said. “Was I right, or wrong?”

“Why don’t you go there and find out?”

So he would.

Damien met up with Wolfgang and Sadie at Skullbucks again. They sat at the same table in the back with their lattes.

“So,” Sadie said, stirring her drink, “how did the knife work for you?”

Damien retrieved the iKnife X from his pocket and gave it to her. “I didn’t use it.”

“Why not?” she asked, sneaking it in her coffin purse.

“Killing my brother won’t stop everyone from focusing on him and not me. I need him alive if I want to prove that I’m superior.”

“I see. So what’s the plan for the apocalypse, then?”

Damien couldn’t help but smirk. “Oh, it’s unlike anything that has ever doomed creation before. Right, Wolfgang?”

Wolfgang nodded while grinning like Jack Nicholson.

“Really?” Sadie said, and leaned her elbows on the table, folding her hands under her chin. “Tell me more.”

“Well, I searched the library for the book that would be needed to initiate this sort of apocalypse. Apparently, it’s in the restricted section and only those deemed worthy may enter. Xezbeth was of little help, of course, but she gave me a riddle and I can’t think of any other answer to it. A place where people are dying to get in, but when they do, they no longer speak. It has to be—”

“The movie theater?” Wolfgang interrupted.

Damien raised an eyebrow.

“No, Wolfgang,” he said. “The graveyard.”

Wolfgang gave him a funny look. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“I mean,” Sadie said, “I _do_ know a lot of people who are dying to see the new John Wick movie… ”

Damien sighed, running his hands through his hair. “That’s utterly ridiculous. Besides, Xezbeth told me to go to the graveyard and find out. Something has to be there.”

“Yeah,” Wolfgang said. “The answer.”

“No, the answer is the graveyard.”

“I dunno about that.”

“Well, I’ll prove it to you tonight.”

“Can I come?”

“No.”

Wolfgang pouted. “Please?”

“No.”

“Pretty please with pentagram-shaped sprinkles on top?”

Damien pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache setting in. “Fine.”

“This is going to be so much fun!” Wolfgang said, practically bouncing in his seat. “We can set up camp and roast marshmallows and tell scary stories and—!”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Damien said. “What? We’re not doing any of that crap!”

But they did.

It was a cold, moonlit night and fog was rolling in throughout the graveyard. The boys were warming up around a fire that Damien had reluctantly lit after Wolfgang’s failed attempts. He was wearing the black hoodie he’d bought, the material not thick enough to keep him insulated alone. Wolfgang had offered him a spare sweater, but he wouldn’t be caught undead matching the idiot that he often resented as a friend.

Wolfgang tore open the bag of jumbo marshmallows and stuck one each on the two long sticks.

“Here you go!” he said, handing the antichrist a marshmallow-topped stick.

Damien, unwillingly, took the stick and held it over the flames, resting his head in his other hand.

“Come on, Damien,” Wolfgang said. “This is fun. When’s the last time you made s’mores around a campfire?”

“We’re supposed to be looking for something,” Damien said, flatly. “Not joining Ezekiel and the Boy Scouts.”

“And we will, but first, s’mores and a scary story. We have all night. Please?”

Damien sighed. “Okay.”

The antichrist wasn’t very hungry, but he forced himself to take at least a bite out of the sweet, crunchy-gooey snack to shut up his annoying friend. Wolfgang pulled a flashlight out of the bag and—oh, it was a fleshlight. He apologized, switching it with the former, while Damien died again inside. He shined the light under his face as he began a story in a cringeworthy, spooky tone, causing Damien’s third figurative death.

The “story,” if it could even be called such, was a bizarre mix of Hannibal and Stephen King’s Christine that didn’t really go anywhere. A cannibalistic man fell in love with a possessed car that helped kill his victims—in exchange for his waste. Yes, the car lived on bodily fluids, not gasoline. Damien was bordering a literal death at this point. He prayed to Satan that it would be over soon before the graveyard became his new home.

Finally, it ended—with the car giving birth. Damien cried.

“Whoa,” Wolfgang said, making Damien feel worse by the bewildered look on his face, as if the antichrist was the first of his kind to cry. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Damien said, wiping his face on his sleeve. “I mean, no, I’m not crying!”

Wolfgang’s face lit up. “So, it was _that_ scary?”

Damien almost pulled his hair out, gritting his teeth in frustration, and he shot up from his chair and abandoned the campsite.

“Hey, wait!” Wolfgang called out, catching up with him.

Damien was tempted to rouse the dead. He wished they’d seize and drag the abomination that was following him like a dog down with them. Wolfgang wouldn’t stop asking for his opinion on the story, and Damien was about to lash out when the sound of digging stopped him. He hushed the other boy and listened, looking around for the source. In the ghostly haze was a man several rows of headstones over, impaling the ground with a shovel.

“There,” Damien whispered, pointing to the stranger. “He must be the person I need to talk to.”

He cut through the spaces between the gravestones, approaching the man, who had his back turned and appeared to be wearing a suit. What was he doing out here in the graveyard at this hour, if he wasn’t paying respects or collecting animal bones? He was digging _someone_ up. Maybe _something_. For Damien. Because he’d guessed the correct answer to Xezbeth’s riddle—the graveyard—and no one else was here. This was it!

“Hi,” Damien said, and the man spun around, holding up his shovel. He looked like a madman with his unkempt, black hair and wild eyes, one bloodshot and the other seemingly injured.

“Who are you?” he snapped. “Don’t come any closer, I’m warning you.” He pulled out a small, white bottle from the inside of his suit. “I have SALT!”

Damien raised his hands. “Hey, put that down!”

The man held out the bottle. “I’ll use it. Don’t test me, kid.”

“Okay, okay!” Damien said. “Look, I’m just here because I answered Xezbeth’s riddle and I need the book.”

“What book?” the man said. “I don’t know anything about a book.”

Damien just stood there, disappointment sinking in.

“Never mind, then,” he said. “Come on, Wolfgang.”

But Wolfgang wasn’t with him. Instead, he was a few rows over, petting a big, black dog. A church grim. It stared in Damien’s direction with its glowing, red eyes, and drew closer, leaving the confused boy behind.

The sound of a shovel hitting the ground turned Damien’s attention back to the man. The look on his face was pure terror. The grim bared its teeth in a snarl, approaching in steady, threatening steps like a famished predator, and the man backed away.

“Shit,” he said, and ran for his afterlife.

The barking dog leaped over graves, chasing after the man, and Wolfgang failed to keep up.

“No, wait!” he said. “Come back, I didn’t even get to name you!”

Another headache was imminent for Damien.

The boys continued to wander the graveyard. No matter how hard Damien’s head was pounding, no matter how much of Wolfgang’s whining he had to endure all night, he refused to leave without _something_ that would get him the Necronomicon. As if the legions had heard his thoughts, another person emerged from the fog and Damien hushed his useless friend. A girl. Her face was painted with an ornate, skeletal theme, matching her jacket. She kneeled to pick up a bone and dropped it in her jack-o-lantern pail.

“Quick,” Damien whispered.

The boys hurried over to her, and the girl blinked, glancing between them.

“Hi,” Damien said. “Are you someone I can ask about Xezbeth’s riddle?”

The girl stared.

“¿Qué?” she said.

“What?” Damien said. “Can you help us or not?”

The girl shrugged. “No hablo inglés.”

“Oh!” Wolfgang said, and raised a finger to Damien. “Allow me.”

Damien crossed his arms as his friend spoke a language that the girl could understand. Spanish? When did he learn that? How did he even have the capacity? Whatever. The antichrist just wanted to get what he needed and leave.

“Gracias!” Wolfgang said, waving to the departing girl.

“You know Spanish?” Damien said.

“I’m possessed, remember?”

Damien almost slapped a hand to his face. “Of course. Well, what did she say?”

“She said there’s no answer here and that we should’ve gone to the movies to see John Wick.”

Damien placed his hands on his hips, staring Wolfgang down. “No, she didn’t. She did not say that.”

“Okay, okay,” Wolfgang said. “She didn’t say John Wick, but she did say we need to go to the movie theater.”

The antichrist searched Wolfgang for any sign of lying, but he was unable to find one. Still, he didn’t trust his friend to know better, let alone the girl who might’ve been trying to throw them off track.

“I’m not buying it,” Damien said. “We’re going to keep looking.”

“Come on!” Wolfgang said, throwing his hands up. “We’ve been looking for hours. There’s nothing here!”

“Yes, there is. We can’t give up.”

“Well, I’m giving up. This is stupid.”

Wolfgang turned around and stormed off.

“Don’t you _dare_ walk away from me,” Damien said, “or I _will_ send you back to the fiery pits forever!”

Wolfgang stopped and looked at Damien, his expression one of a stone-cold anger that the antichrist had never witnessed before.

“ _Excuse me?_ ” Wolfgang said, a threat in his tone.

Damien swallowed, standing his ground. “You heard me. You’re not going anywhere.”

Wolfgang’s eyes flashed red and he took a step forward, giving Damien a jolt. He hadn’t learned the name of the demon that still possessed the other boy, but he knew it was powerful.

“Friends don’t send friends to the fiery pits,” Wolfgang said, his features darkening. “No matter what.”

Damien hesitated, trying to consider his words without showing fear, even though the demon within his friend could probably smell it in his sweat.

“You know how important this is to me,” he said. “To us.”

Wolfgang took another step, his fingernails extending into long, jagged claws. “Then let’s go to the movies.”

“You go, then,” Damien said, suppressing the shameful urge to tremble. “I’m staying here.”

Wolfgang kept his eyes locked on Damien’s, and then they widened at whatever was behind him, fingernails returning to normal.

Damien felt it. A cold, ominous presence. Wolfgang pointed, warning him to not turn around, which didn’t help at all. A hand touched his shoulder, freezing him in place, and he ever so reluctantly turned his head.

He was staring into the blank eyes of a girl with long, black hair and an inverted pentagram carved into her forehead.

Damien had never imagined that he’d be learning parkour in a graveyard.

The boys barely managed to escape the hungry ghoul, and they didn’t stop running even after jumping the gates. They finally collapsed on the sidewalk somewhere, catching their breath.

“Wow,” Wolfgang breathed. “That was AWESOME!”

Damien just wanted to die a permanent death already.

“Hey, Damien. We still have time to see John Wick.”

Damien groaned into his hands.

But he had a job. He needed the Necronomicon. Whoever or whatever he had to find was probably still in the graveyard. Perhaps he would look again tomorrow, and without Wolfgang.

Headlights in the distance pierced the fog, the road reverberating with the sound of a large vehicle. The boys got to their feet and Wolfgang waved down the truck. A meat truck. It screeched to a halt and the driver window descended, revealing a bald, overweight man with food debris all over his face, dribbling down his chin. Damien turned away, gagging.

“Hey, kids!” the disgusting man squealed, like a pig. “What are you doing out here?”

“Nothing, really,” Wolfgang said. “We need to get to the movie theater.”

“Well, hop right in, I can afford to give you two a ride!”

Damien would rather kiss Death than ride with this man, but he couldn’t say no. The smell of rancid garbage invaded his nostrils before they even boarded the truck. He suppressed another gag, holding his nose, trying to look away from fast food wrappers and containers and chicken bones that littered the floor. Wolfgang had to sit on his lap, but at least he was distracting the guy as the antichrist rolled down the window. He had no idea how his friend could be unbothered by the stink and unrestrained belching. Then again, this was Wolfgang. Demon-possessed and an all-around oblivious, bumbling idiot who was no less of a slob.

When the grotesque nightmare finally ended and they were dropped off at the movie theater, Damien sniffed himself and recoiled in disgust. The odor had clung to him like a curse. He dreaded going inside, but he had no other choice. Wolfgang went ahead of him, and people looked, followed by coughed. It was crowded, but everyone was making way for them, allowing them to the front of the line as half exited and half ran for the bathrooms. Not even the cashier could wait for Wolfgang to fish money out of his pocket, so their tickets were free. The smell had such an effect on others that Damien wondered how he and his friend were exceptions. Oh, right. He was the antichrist and Wolfgang was still possessed by a demon.

The back row cleared as the boys seated themselves. The other rows emptied one at a time, coughing and gagging filling the theater. Damien eased into his seat, relishing in the emptiness until the previews of upcoming movies played, blaring in his damn ears. He hated this place. If he anticipated a film, he’d just wait until it was available on DVD to watch it. Alone.

“Hey, Damien,” Wolfgang said, before another preview started. “I think we’re missing something.”

“What?”

Wolfgang scratched his chin in thought. “Oh, yeah! Snacks.”

He left to get the snacks and soon returned with a large box of nachos, hotdogs, popcorn, candy, and soda. Damien secretly hoped he’d trip on the steps and fall face-first into everything, just so he could be the laughing stock for once instead, even though no one would be around to witness it. Still, he’d _dared_ threaten the antichrist, the Devil’s son, in the graveyard. Damien wouldn’t forget that.

Wolfgang didn’t trip, surprisingly. Disappointingly. He was smiling, seating himself next to Damien and setting the box on his lap.

“What would you like?” he asked. “I got us one of everything!”

“I’m not hungry,” Damien said, keeping his eyes on the screen.

“Aw, come on,” Wolfgang said. “You gotta be.”

He waved a hotdog in Damien’s face, and the antichrist nearly swatted it out of his hand.

“Hey!” Wolfgang said. “Okay, fine. Jeez.”

The lights dimmed to darkness and the movie began. Then, Wolfgang gasped.

“Damien!” he blurted. “Look at this!”

The foil that had been wrapped around the hotdog bore glow-in-the-dark words that read:

_I know what you’re looking for and I have what you need. Meet me at 666 S 13th St, 13th floor. Tell anyone who asks that you have an appointment with Y2KN16H7M4R3._

Damien blinked. He didn’t know whether to feel thrilled or confused. He reached into his pocket for his phone and—oh, no. No, no, no. They’d left their things in the graveyard. How could he have forgotten all this time?

“Shit,” Damien said. “I need to go back to the graveyard and get our stuff.”

“But you’ll miss the movie!” Wolfgang said.

“Seriously? Our stuff is more important!”

He got up before Wolfgang could protest and snatched the foil out of his hand, and he headed down the steps for the exit. To Damien’s relief, he wasn’t followed out of the theater.


	3. Chapter 3

Damien stopped upon realizing that he had no way of getting to the graveyard. With a slap to his forehead, he returned inside. He was allowed to make a call to the taxi service at the ticket booth, mostly because everyone had evacuated due to his putrid smell. He was told that a cab would be arriving within fifteen minutes, so he waited.

And waited.

Twenty minutes later, still without a ride, Damien picked up the phone and called the service again. They told him there was a delay and he’d have to wait another fifteen minutes.

So he waited. Again.

Fifteen minutes later, still no cab.

Fuming, Damien dialed the number again to give them a piece of his satanic mind, but nobody answered. Cowards. Incompetent fools! He noted to burn down the cab service before saying “screw it” and leaving the theater. He’d have to get to the graveyard on foot.

Hitchhiking was out of the question. Damien knew better than to make _that_ mistake again, and it wasn’t like anyone would let him in their car. He smelled worse than the Second Pit of the Eighth Circle, where souls were forever stuck lying in human excrement. Oh, right. The cab driver would probably refuse him as well, no matter how much he paid. Stupid taxi service. Stupid Wolfgang. Stupid pig who drove the meat truck. Stupid town. Stupid everything!

Then, as if the blasphemous gods had listened, an old bicycle was resting against a tree without a lock. Only a small piece of paper was taped to it, and Damien yanked the note off and read it:

_I thought you might need this._

_\- Y2KN16H7M4R3_

Damien looked around, but there was no one in sight. Was he being watched? Who in the underworld was this guy and how was he so fast? Well, as long as this wasn’t some sort of lousy trick.

Testing the bicycle with utmost caution in the parking lot, Damien found the way it rode slightly below his already lowered expectations, but it would get him to the graveyard quicker than walking. He took his time, not wanting the rusty contraption to fall apart halfway to his destination. He managed to arrive in one piece, and no spirits bothered him. In fact, they avoided him. Even the dead couldn’t stand the stink.

The campsite was still up and their belongings hadn’t been touched. Damien retrieved his phone from the bag and found a missed call from his father, who’d probably been concerned in regards to his whereabouts.

He called home, and after a few rings, someone—hopefully not his brother—picked up.

“Damien?” Lou said.

Damien sighed in relief. “Hi, Dad.”

“Where are you?”

“The graveyard, camping.”

“You’re… camping in the graveyard?”

“It was Wolfgang’s idea. He’s at the movie theater right now and I have a problem. It’s been a long night.”

With everything packed and his father’s car loaded, Damien got in and was driven home. Lou, unsurprisingly, remarked the stench. The antichrist had no choice but to admit how it’d happened. His father had prepared a bath that would banish the cursed smell. It was unlikely that Lou would be willing to pick up Wolfgang from the movie theater, considering how that would worsen the air, but Damien wasn’t concerned. He couldn’t worry about the idiot that always managed to find a way. He’d had enough shenanigans for tonight. He just wanted to enjoy a peaceful, candlelit atmosphere.

The tub was like a luxurious pool, in-ground and lit up with red underwater lights. Damien shed his clothes, threw them in the laundry basket, and descended the steps into the water, submerging himself for a few seconds before surfacing. He pushed his wet hair back and settled in the corner, relishing in the fresh scent that rid him of the foul curse—and his thoughts. Nothing but the present moment mattered to him, as if he’d become the Buddha. Did Buddhists go to Hell, too, just for not believing in God? It didn’t matter. The bath was too nice to dwell on such fleeting affairs.

The door flew open and Damien jumped, screaming like a little girl as Wolfgang entered.

“Relax, Damien, it’s only me!” he said, closing the door behind him, and yanked his sweater over his head and dropped it on the floor. “The movie was awesome, by the way. It’s too bad you missed it!”

“What are you doing?” Damien said, moving to the other side of the tub until his back was against it, the insolent friend unbuttoning his corduroys. “Get out of here!”

Wolfgang pulled his pants down and stepped out of them. “I need a bath, too, silly.”

Damien shielded his eyes before Wolfgang slipped out of his underwear.

“Cannonball!” Wolfgang said, and water washed over Damien, making him recoil.

“You idiot!” Damien snapped, wiping droplets from his eyes. “Don’t do that!”

Wolfgang surfaced beside Damien, who moved away, glaring daggers at the other boy.

“Hey, lighten up,” Wolfgang said. “At least we smell nice.”

Damien heaved a sigh.

“Hey, Damien.”

“What?”

“This is our first time being naked together.”

Damien’s face heated up. “Wolfgang.”

“Yeah?”

“Please be quiet.”

“Okay.”

The most awkward silence hung between them for about a minute.

“Hey, Damien.”

Damien ignored him.

“Damien. Psst. Damien. _Damien_. Dame-ee-en.”

“What!”

“Did you find out anything about that address?”

“What addre—?”

The mysterious message. It was still in the pocket of his gray pants.

Damien grabbed one of the folded towels by the tub and dried himself as he ascended the steps. He wrapped it around his waist and noticed Wolfgang staring at him as if he’d seen an angel.

“Wolfgang?” Damien said.

His friend didn’t so much as blink.

“Okay,” Damien said, the unresponsiveness giving him goosebumps, and he tended to the dirty laundry, searching his pant’s pockets until he found the foil wrap. “Well, I’m going to get changed and look up this address. Put your clothes in the basket when you’re finished, and don’t forget to dry the floor. You got water everywhere.”

Wolfgang was still staring at him, and his eyes followed Damien out of the bathroom. It made the antichrist shudder. What was wrong with him? Was his demonic possession flaring up again? Should Damien lock his bedroom door? Probably, but that could upset Wolfgang and agitate the demon in return. Whatever his friend was going through would just have to be tolerated.

Having slipped into a pair of silky pajamas, Damien took his phone to bed with him, switched off the nightstand lamp, and tapped in the address provided by the glow-in-the-dark words inside the foil.

_666 S 13th St, 13th floor._ It was the location of BuzzKill Headquarters, a popular source of hellish news and entertainment. Damien would have to take a trip to the city of Slaughterville, which was a little over an hour away from Devil’s Playground.

Damien wouldn’t tell Wolfgang. He’d done enough damage, and now he was acting downright bizarre, for whatever reason. So the antichrist put his phone aside and ripped up the foil, saving only the name on it, and he got out of bed and disposed of the other pieces in the small trashcan. He intended to wash his hands, but the bathroom door was locked.

“Wolfgang?” he said. “Are you in there?”

No response.

“Hey,” Damien said, giving the door a few knocks. “Open up, if you aren’t doing anything. I need to wash my hands.”

Again, nothing.

Damien huffed. “Fine, I’ll just use sanitizer.”

The antichrist fell asleep before Wolfgang had joined him, but he’d been too tired to be concerned. Upon waking up the next morning, he rolled over in his bed and rubbed his eyes, realizing that the other one was, in fact, empty.

“Wolfgang?” Damien said, getting up.

He wasn’t in the bedroom, so he checked the bathroom. This time, the door wasn’t locked, and there was Wolfgang, sitting on the steps of the tub with his head resting on the edge, snoring away.

“Hey, wake up!” Damien said, jolting his friend awake.

“Whoa,” Wolfgang said. “Heh, sorry about that. Guess I fell asleep.”

Damien crossed his arms, glaring at him. “Yeah, you did. What was that last night? You were totally out of it when I left and then the door was locked.”

“Oh. I was just, uh, feeling a bit weird.”

“If you think your possession is flaring up again, I’ll make an appointment for you to see Dr. Dedwin.”

“Yeah, maybe I should.”

Thank evil it was a Saturday and Dr. Dedwin was available. The wait, on the other hand, took as long as Damien would need to drive to Slaughterville. He would’ve been there by now had he never mentioned the doctor, but at least they were taking Wolfgang’s possession seriously before it could get out of control.

Something was crawling on Damien’s hand. A spider. He gasped and flicked it off.

“Sorry,” the purple-haired girl next to him said, turning so he could see the open wound on her face from which spiders were pouring. “It popped again.”

Damien grimaced, and he grabbed Wolfgang’s hand and led him to a different seat, explaining that he wanted to avoid the spiders. One of the two glass doors swung open and a girl in pajamas with bunny slippers entered. She was missing the top of her head, brain exposed. Unfortunately, and unsurprisingly, she seated herself beside Damien, who refused to acknowledge her until she made annoying squishy sounds. She was poking her brain. Great.

The door between the waiting room and the offices opened, and the blue-haired nurse stepped out.

“Wolfgang,” she said. Finally.

The nurse escorted the boys to their room and Dr. Dedwin greeted them with enthusiasm. Wolfgang lifted himself up on the examination chair while Damien stood, arms crossed. He shared his concerns and recent experiences in regards to the possessed boy’s behavior, and the doctor ran a series of basic tests.

“Zero over zero,” Dr. Dedwin said, and removed the blood pressure cuff from Wolfgang’s arm. “Okay, your lack of vital signs is perfect. Let’s check for any pre-warning symptoms of active demonic possession. You might want to stand further away, Damien.”

Damien stepped back. Dr. Dedwin opened one of the cabinets and took a cross that he held up to Wolfgang. The sight of the holy object was enough to make the antichrist feel uneasy.

“How do you feel?” Dr. Dedwin asked.

Wolfgang shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”

The doctor stepped closer. “Now?”

“Still fine.”

The doctor took another step, the cross inches from the boy’s face.

“I… uh-oh.”

Wolfgang’s stomach gurgled, and he coughed, spitting a jet of green fluid on the cross that splattered over Dr. Dedwin’s hand and bloodied scrub suit.

“Oh, Satan!” the doctor said, moving back. “I’m afraid you are in the early stage of active possession, Wolfgang.”

Wolfgang wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sweater. “What can you do about it, Doctor?”

Dr. Dedwin rinsed off the cross, along with his hand, in the sink. “Well, this sort of thing happens when the demon craves something that the host is abstaining from. If you study your Seven Deadly Sins, you’ll know that demons require fulfilled urges in order to be satisfied.” He dried the holy object with a paper towel and returned it to the cabinet. “Scratch the itch, as they say, and your demon will go dormant.”

“But how?”

“Well, what are you craving?” The doctor dabbed his shirt with another paper towel. “What kind of urges do you have?”

Wolfgang looked as if he was about to spit up again. He glanced at Damien and swallowed.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Damien and Dr. Dedwin gave him a look.

“You don’t know?” the doctor said. “This is the first time I’ve heard a patient claim to not know what they desire.” He scrutinized the boy. “Are you, perhaps, in denial?”

“No, no,” Wolfgang said, shaking his head. “I think I desire, uh, pancakes!”

“Pancakes?”

Wolfgang nodded.

“Well, pancakes it is! Go eat up.”

“Wait, what?” Damien said. “We had pancakes this morning.”

Wolfgang paused. “Yeah, but I want more. They’re amazing.”

“They’re instant.”

“They’re amazing instant pancakes.”

Damien didn’t believe Wolfgang, but he drove him home and whipped up some pancakes, anyway. Finished, he turned off the stove and carried the steaming plate over to the kitchen table.

“There,” Damien said, setting it down. “I have somewhere to go now. Private matter. I’ll be back sometime later, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Wolfgang said, taking the bottle of syrup. “Thanks.”

“Yep,” Damien said, and collected his phone and keys on his way out of the mansion.

The drive to Slaughterville took longer than a little over an hour. Traffic was murder—literally. Some people were unable to wait anymore, so they left their cars and broke into others and stabbed the drivers. Being the son of the Devil came with quite a few privileges, one of them a high-end car with a special button for this type of situation. Damien didn’t hesitate to press it, and hellfire consumed the exterior of the vehicle. He stepped on the gas pedal and sliced his way through cars and people, like a knife slicing warm butter. Until the road was cleared, he leaned back and imagined that he was obliterating his stupid, gloating twin and all his fans. He’d caught up on sleep instead of having settled for yet another revolting English breakfast.

Driving in the city wasn’t any less of a hassle, but he managed to find a spot in the parking garage without having to blast a car. Damien navigated the streets, walking a few blocks until he came across BuzzKill Headquarters, and entered the building. He headed upstairs to the thirteenth floor and almost bumped into a young woman with pink hair, styled in a long, curly top-side ponytail. A poodle skirt hugged her waist and cat-eye sunglasses further obscured her eyebrow-less expression, but her black lips gave her mood away with a frown.

“Another man, another problem," she said. "This time, it’s the most patriarchal of them all—the son of Lou Sapphire.”

“Excuse me?” Damien said, narrowing his eyes. “Who are you?”

“My name is Dottie Rose,” she said. “I’m an intersectional feminist killjoy. My pronouns are she-her and I’m also founder of the Pussy Church of Modern Witchcraft.”

“Um, okay?”

“What do you mean ‘um, okay?’”

“I mean, I don’t know how to respond. I’ve never had someone introduce themselves to me like a Twitter bio before.”

Dottie’s jaw dropped, and she put her hands on her hips. “Excuse _me_ , but it’s important that we normalize all forms of identity upon acquainting ourselves for the sake of inclusivity, unless you prefer to be a bigot.”

Damien gave a roll of his eyes. “Oh, please. I’m not a bigot. I just don’t think all of that is necessary. Look, I’m not here for a social justice debate. I really need to find someone.”

“So you’re a bigot.”

“No, I’m not! I just want to know where I can find—”

Dottie raised a finger to his mouth, hushing him.

“This is a safe space for minorities, not you,” she said. “In case you haven’t noticed, which I’m sure you haven’t because most able-bodied people don’t, I have porphyria, which means I can’t be exposed to the sun without dying a second time. I have to wear these sunglasses indoors because the light triggers me, literally. So consider yourself all the more privileged, white male. Also—” She whipped out her phone from her purse. “—I’m going to expose your bigotry on my blog. I hope you enjoy being canceled forever.”

Dottie shoved past him, taking the stairs down. Damien forced a sigh and proceeded into the busy workroom, unsure of whom to approach. People tapped away at their keyboards with some chit-chat here and there. The antichrist decided to inquire the lone girl in a black hat, tank top, and blue plaid pants who didn’t seem to be doing, just smoking and lounging in her chair.

“Hi,” Damien said.

Glowering, the girl raised the cigarette to her lips, inhaled, and blew smoke. “What do you want?”

“I need to find this person,” Damien said, and showed her the piece of foil with the name. “I, uh, have an appointment with them.”

The girl blinked in disappointment. “Oh. Him.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Let me tell you something about this kid,” the girl said, putting out her cigarette in the ashtray, and she leaned forward, looking Damien in the eye. “He made fun of me.”

“Uh, all right.”

“No, it’s not all right. I’m a _very_ sensitive person.”

The girl sounded as if she was on the verge of tears. Damien had no idea what to do.

“Look, uh, sorry,” he said. “Can you just show me where he is and I’ll talk to him for you, I guess?”

Sniffling, the girl wiped a tear from her eye. “Would you really do that for me?”

“Yeah, sure.”

The girl led him out of the office and into a cafeteria. They passed a meeting room and headed down the hall, which ended at a single black door with a gold, engraved plaque that read _PRIVATE_. She pressed the button on the box beside it, and a few seconds later the door clicked, unlocked.

“Go ahead,” the girl said.

Damien nodded, and he pulled down the handle and pushed his way in. He let go of the door and it closed automatically behind him. The only source of light came from several big screens on the wall above a desk and plump, leather chair, which was turned away from him. They displayed information and graphs that the antichrist couldn’t comprehend, but there was a map of Hell.

“Damien,” a male voice said. “You got my message.”

“Yeah?” Damien said.

“And my old bike.”

“Yes? Are you expecting me to thank you?”

“On the contrary, I’m expecting you to know who I am. Are you still lost?”

Damien paused in thought. “Yeah, I’m still lost.”

“I guess you haven’t noticed the steady decline in newspapers.”

Damien pondered. The bike. The newspapers. Oh, no.

“You’ve got to be joking,” he said. “Isaiah?”

Isaiah spun around in his chair, and he folded his arms behind his head and rested his combat boots on the desk, looking all smug in his black hoodie. Damien had never been more disappointed.

“What the—what do _you_ want?” he said.

“I want to help you.”

Damien laughed. “Help me? Can you help me from being ‘canceled forever?’”

“I can do that and more. Much more. I have connections.”

“Oh, yeah? And what’s the catch?”

Isaiah’s smirk grew. “I’ve been watching you, Damien. I’ve been listening. You want to triumph over your brother as well as every other antichrist, now and forever. And you have a _very_ interesting idea in mind.”

There was nothing that Damien hated more—well, besides his brother—than someone snooping around in his business. The audacity of this idiot to have thought it was acceptable to spy on the one-and-only antichrist! Did Isaiah really know what he was planning? Not only was the robot unwisely arrogant, but he was also the textbook definition of a creep. He wanted something from Damien, but he wasn’t getting it.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Damien said. “What’s the catch?”

“Just a little recognition for my efforts,” Isaiah said. “That’s all.”

“Yeah, right.” Damien spun on his heel. “I’m leaving.”

“You’re going to need more than the Necronomicon.”

Damien hesitated, and turned around. Isaiah took his boots off the desk and rolled closer, leaning forward with his hands folded on the surface.

“You think you won’t need anyone’s support,” he continued, “but you will. I was like you at one time: I had nobody and was a nobody. Now, look where I am. Resurrected, or as I like to call it, _upgraded_. My own office. Personal, undercover assistants. Access to a wealth of information around Hell. Oh, and tons of video games.” He pointed to a cutting-edge gaming station in the corner. “Do you want to know how these things happened? Join me, and you’ll know _everything_.”

It was true: nobody knew exactly how Isaiah had risen to the top, having gone from shy newsboy to robo-blogger-gamer extraordinaire in a matter of months. There were plenty of rumors, such as making a pact with a demon or enrolling in the Illuminati, but none had been confirmed with sufficient evidence. As tempting as his offer was, Damien didn’t want to make any rash decisions. He might’ve been unsuccessful, and unfairly so, but he’d never be played for a fool.

“I’ll consider it,” he said.

Isaiah smiled. “Take your time.”

“I will.” Damien strode to the door and gripped the handle, but he looked over his shoulder. “Oh, and Isaiah?”

“Yes?”

“Quit stalking me.”

With that, Damien opened the door and left.


End file.
